Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Puppy
by Galaxy1001D
Summary: A puppy follows Watson home from a crime scene. Rated 'T' due to Holmes' drug habit and the occasional innuendo.
1. Doctor Watson's Novel Idea

**Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Puppy**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Die Like a Dog' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

_Chapter One: Doctor Watson's Novel Idea_

It was a rainy day when the hansom deposited me before our address on Baker Street, but my thoughts were not on the weather. This was early in our career, before I met my beloved Mary. I was returning after meeting my young friend Doyle who said he knew someone who would publish my novel. Getting one's first book published presents something of a paradox. Publishers prefer established authors, so breaking into the field is difficult for an unknown. I had agreed to go halves with Doyle and even let him have the byline if he could accomplish the miracle of getting my novel published, and to his credit he promised me he would spare no effort at getting it done.

As I strolled into the front door of our Baker Street address and placed my hat and raincoat on the coatrack that doubled as a hat stand I noticed a Mackintosh in the same color and style as my own near Sherlock Holmes' Inverness cape. As I wondered who our visitor was I was rewarded by encountering said individual as he descended the stairs in a state of irritation, if not barely concealed fury.

He said not a word but I believe that I heard an animal grunt as he pulled a Mackintosh off the coatrack and brushed past me. I stared after him, hoping that he hadn't done my friend any harm. I then ascended the stairs to find Sherlock Holmes lighting his pipe with an ambiguous combination of satisfaction and disappointment.

"Who was _that_?" I asked him in barely hidden astonishment.

"That my dear fellow was Richard Meagan," Holmes purred in the satisfied drawl he affects when he has truly infuriated someone. "It seems that Mister Meagan has mislaid his wife and placed high hopes that I was willing to find her."

"Did you take the case?" I asked him.

"No," he said darkly.

"Holmes!" I ejaculated in exasperation. "Have you lost your mind? You know how badly we need the money! That man was a potential _client_!"

"That man had murder in his eye before I refused him Watson," he drawled as he sucked on his pipe. "I think that it might be best for Mrs. Meagan if Sherlock Holmes didn't get involved in the case, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," I sighed in defeat. Holmes had described me once as having a chivalrous nature and had correctly deduced that I would agree with him despite the hardship it would bring us. "I just thought it would put meat on the table. Our purses are getting mighty light you know."

"Trouble at the races, old boy?" he asked coyly.

"No," I blushed at the insinuation.

"Really?" he asked with skepticism. "Your little jaunt to Kempton Park yesterday did little to raise your spirits, and when you returned home all you could talk about was various methods of supplementing our income. Are you sure you didn't bet more than we can afford old fellow?"

"No." My cheeks were burning now.

"That's good," he purred. "I just thought we might be having trouble with our finances, that's all."

"Interesting that you should mention it," I said firmly.

"Yes, interesting," he agreed as he looked away with a dreamy expression on his face.

"Speaking of supplementing our income, I think I might have found a way to earn some money," I continued in the same impatient tone.

"Have you old boy?" he murmured without the slightest sign of interest.

"Aren't you going to ask me how my meeting with Doyle went?" I asked as I tried to hide my irritation.

"Must I?"

"Yes. You must."

"If I must," he sniffed disdainfully. He reached into his desk and opened a tin of tobacco and muttered something when some spilled on the rug. "What a waste of a fine shag. I really must find a better place to store this, Watson."

"Holmes, are you listening?" I asked impatiently. I knew what was happening of course, but was determined to bull through anyway.

When I first met Sherlock Holmes, he admitted that he could get down in the dumps for days on end and advised me not to take it personally. I myself admitted that I could have a temper; the words I used were 'I keep a bull-pup.' That turn of phrase will become important later.

It was obvious that Holmes was starting to fall into one of his moods and that was no doubt a factor in his decision to turn down Mister Richard Meagan's case. Chasing after an absent wife was beneath him when he was like this, as indeed saying 'please' and 'thank you' were now beneath him. He had told me often that his mind rebelled at stagnation, and he was no doubt baiting me to start an argument. Well if it would keep him away from the morphine and cocaine, who was I to refuse him? As both his friend and doctor it was my duty to give him the most stimulating argument I could muster. For Mister Sherlock Holmes, boredom could be as dangerous as excitement.

"I'm riveted to my seat old boy," he assured me. "Pray continue."

"It's my book Holmes!" I continued as I summoned some childish glee. "Doyle thinks he's found an editor that will actually read my book!"

"Has he?" Holmes sniffed in disinterest.

"Yes," I nodded, determined not to let him crush my enthusiasm. "He's found an editor from the Ward Lock Company who's willing to take a look at it! Isn't that wonderful? By this time next year it could be in _Beeton's Christmas Annual_!"

"A magazine?" Holmes snorted disdainfully. "It won't even be in hardback? Dear me, more's the pity."

"You don't understand Holmes," I continued. "The important thing is to get something published! Once I actually have something in print finding a publisher will be easy. The hardest part is getting your foot in the door."

"Well done Watson," Holmes surrendered as gracefully as he could. "Capital. Alpha plus. What is your book about again?"

"What is my book about?" I gasped in exasperation. "My book is about _you_."

"What about me?" he asked with feigned ignorance.

"It's about our first case together," I exclaimed. "Our Study in Scarlet! Remember? The poisoner. The Jefferson Hope case!"

"Oh yes," he nodded. "That American chap who murdered those two Mormon fellows. That's right."

"Yes," I nodded. "Remember? I was so incensed about the way Lestrade and Gregson got the recognition for the case you solved that I swore that one day the public would know the truth. Who knows? Perhaps sometime next year that day will come."

"Is this your book, _A Tangled Skein?_" Holmes asked dryly.

"Doyle suggested we change the title to _A Study in Scarlet_," I replied as I sat down in my chair. "He felt that a more lurid title would increase sales."

"You realize that you're perverting what should have been a scientific treatise of the practical application of observation and analysis into a sensationalist and romantic fairy tale," he scolded. "Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with the facts."

"Some facts should be suppressed, or, at least, a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them," he insisted. "The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes, by which I succeeded in unraveling it."

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my manuscript should be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner. I bit back an impertinent reply and vainly continued to plead my case.

"But surely Holmes, if the actual facts of the case are a tad sensational, it will only increase sales," I protested. "A few extra coins in our pockets can't hurt us."

"You'll get pennies for it after you split it with young Doyle, I fear," he muttered.

"But think of the publicity," I continued. "It would be like having the publishers pay us for the privilege of advertising for you. I took great pains in my second chapter to let the world know that you're the world's only private consulting detective and that Scotland Yard comes to you to solve its most difficult cases! We don't have to buy that kind of publicity; they could be willing to pay us some money to _give it_ to us!"

"Very well," Holmes sighed. "Just don't get too disappointed when the editors refuse to even look at your manuscript. They get hundreds, if not thousands of submissions a year you know and it's likely that they won't even give you a chance. It's a good thing you finally mastered the typewriter by the way. I suspect the failure to sell your first draft was due to the fact that no one but a pharmacist can read a doctor's writing."

"Holmes," I scratched my head warily. "Do you have some objection to my selling an account of one your cases?"

"Not in the slightest my dear Watson," Holmes shrugged. "It's not like anyone in this fickle nation will actually read it. In any case you were careful to change your description of my physical appearance weren't you? I go through a fortune in greasepaint as it is old boy."

"Of course Holmes," I assured him. "Your literary counterpart will be combination of Doctor Joseph Bell and our dentist."

"Doctor Brett?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, the one you said had a nice large skull for brain room," I nodded. "Jeremy Brett would make an excellent Sherlock Holmes."

"What about that Irish fellow you hired to be our solicitor, Downey?" Holmes suggested. "His features are rather distinctive I should think."

"Oh no," I shook my head. "Too Jewish. He would make a terrible Sherlock Holmes. Besides, I can't imagine the solid and dependable Bob Downy as a cocaine abuser."

"I don't _abuse_ cocaine," Holmes sniffed indignantly. "I just use it to get me out of the doldrums once and a while."

"You _abuse it_ Holmes," I insisted. "For the life of me I can't imagine why you for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed! Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable!"

"I've upset you," he said gently.

"No you haven't," I denied.

"You're upset," he observed.

"No I'm not," I shook my head.

"It's that woman isn't it?" he guessed. "The one who left you for a barrister? Went for the larger checkbook did she?"

"Leave Carol out of this." I admit I became agitated at this point.

"I must confess that I am in some way responsible for your financial straits, my dear fellow," Holmes murmured. "If I didn't invite you along on my cases you would have more time to devote to your own practice and more money to lose at the racetrack."

"I _do not_ lose money at the racetrack!" I protested.

"At cards then?" he guessed. "Dice? No matter. Because you accompany me while I earn my livelihood you have been denied the chance to prosper at yours. It's only fair that I sacrifice my privacy to allow you a chance to recoup your losses."

"Very big you," I muttered sarcastically. I heaved a great sigh and rose to my feet.

"Where are you going?" Holmes asked with a trace of concern.

"Out!" I fumed. I had warned Holmes that I kept a bull-pup when we first met. I confess that thanks to my temper we would soon keep one literally.

"You just came in," he said.

"I think I'll take a walk around the block if you don't mind," I snorted. "As it is, I could do with a bit of fresh air!"

I marched down the stairs and retrieved my hat and raincoat. I donned my hat, but the Mackintosh didn't really fit me. After examining the offending garment, I climbed the stairs again.

"Back so soon?" Holmes asked with a trace of surprise. "My, doesn't time fly?"

"Holmes your client…"

"He's not my client."

"Your _ex_-client!"

"He was never my client," Holmes corrected.

I snapped my fingers in frustration. "That man, Meagan. Whatever his name is! When he left here he took my raincoat! Where does the fellow live?"

"He left his card here," Holmes nodded to a calling card that was nearly invisible atop a pile of letters. "According to his address he lives only a few blocks away."

"Good," I said as I went back to the door. "I need a walk anyway."

"If you're going for a stroll, don't forget your umbrella," Holmes muttered as I made my way out.

I declined a reply because a proper gentleman doesn't make rude suggestions about where an umbrella should be placed. I marched out of our home like a man on a mission, but little did I realize it was a mission that wouldn't be accomplished anytime soon.

* * *

_Next: Gladstone_


	2. Gladstone

**Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Puppy**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Die Like a Dog' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

_Chapter Two: Gladstone_

At this point I would like to point out that normally I'm very patient with Holmes. Unfortunately the rainy weather had aggravated the Jezail bullet I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign. It was no small wonder that I was snapping at my friend like a wounded dog. I had no desire to get into a similar row with Mister Meagan so I decided to stop at a coffee house before asking for my wayward raincoat back.

I read and sipped my beverage for over a half hour before I judged myself to be civil enough to disarm Meagan and regain my lost property. If memory served me Arbor Street was only three blocks long. On either side was an assortment of old brick houses, most of which were four stories. Number 29 would be about the middle of the first block. During my lunch the rain had stopped and the hot soup had warmed me sufficiently so that wearing a heavy coat was unnecessary. Instead of wearing the raincoat I folded it wet side in and hung it on my arm for the rest of the journey.

When I reached my destination I spotted a carriage that I recognized as a Black Maria and one of London's stalwart uniformed policemen in front of the place. As I approached I heard the bobby calling, "'Oose dog is this? 'Ere now, does anybody know 'oose dog is this?" - referring, evidently, to a homely little animal with a white coat with large brown spots standing behind him. I use the word homely because it was a bulldog puppy, and as such it was homely in every sense of the word. It was both homely as in adorably suited for a domestic environment and homely as in a bit ugly and funny looking. Despite the crowd of curious onlookers flocking around him, I heard no one claim the dog, but I wouldn't have anyway, because my attention was soon diverted.

Another Maria clattered up and stopped behind the first one, and some men got out, pushed through the crowd to the sidewalk, nodded to the bobby without halting, and went in the entrance, above which appeared the number 29. Two of the men were more uniformed policemen. Another was apparently a brother in my profession, for he was dressed professionally and carried a medical bag. The third was a short clever little weasel of a man who I recognized as none other than Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police Department, Criminal Investigations Department.

Lestrade often worked homicide cases, which meant that whatever happened at Mister Meagan's address was no doubt serious indeed. Fighting the temptation to enter the building and offer my assistance I decided that now was probably not the best time to recover my coat. Inspector Lestrade was a proud man and would not appreciate assistance that was not asked for, and in any case if the CID wanted my assistance they could pay for it.

The good inspector however chose that moment to prove that his skill observation wasn't quite as poor as Holmes and I assumed. "Doctor Watson?" he summoned me with his finger. "It _is_ you. What are you doing here? Is Mister Holmes with you?"

"Nothing of the kind, Lestrade," I told him. "Holmes is safe at home. I was simply out for a walk and happened to be in the vicinity that's all."

"You just _happened_ to be in the vicinity?" he asked me suspiciously.

"Very well," I sighed. "If you must know one of the boarders of this place was in our rooms and left with my raincoat by mistake." I looked at bobby who stood behind him eyeing me as if I had committed a crime. "Although I think that it might be best if I return later. Something seems to have happened here."

"That's a bit of an understatement," Lestrade chuckled bitterly. "May I ask the gentleman's name and what it was about?"

I shrugged for client confidentiality only extends to clients. "If you must know his name was Richard Meagan and I believe he came to see Holmes about a domestic affair."

"Did he take the case?"

"No," I grunted. "Holmes is in one of his moods right now and it would take a real challenge to stir him into activity." I looked hopefully at the little policeman. "Is this case going to be a challenge? He enjoys a challenge." I hate to admit that it was a blatant shill. I was short of funds due to the amount I had _not_ lost at the races, and Holmes needed a challenge to get him out of his doldrums and away from his morphine.

Lestrade ignored it, and looking back I can't say that I blame him. "That your dog?" He pointed at wrinkled puppy sniffing at my foot.

The precious bull-pup was nuzzling my ankle, and I stooped to give him a pat on the head. "No, I've never seen him before," I said offhandedly. "He's just a puppy though. Poor thing."

"Have a good day, Doctor Watson," Inspector Lestrade muttered regretfully. "If I need you or Mister Holmes I'll be in touch. Good day."

"Yes, good day," I nodded before turning to head home. With luck Lestrade's men were trampling over the evidence as we spoke and enough traces would be obliterated to force the good inspector to ask for Holmes' help.

* * *

I was not two blocks into my return when I noticed that I was not alone. My little friend the bull-pup who I had not noticed until I stopped at a corner to wait for traffic to subside was following me. As my new friend and I surveyed each other the wind chose that moment to blow my bowler off my head and into traffic. Aside of taking one step and extending my hand, I let it go, for the street was still an assortment of hansoms, broughams and dog-carts, but the little pup darted out into traffic before I could do anything. By some miracle, the little scamp managed to avoid being trampled and actually made it back to my side with my hat in one piece.

To his credit, although my bowler had taken some water, the puppy had returned it to me intact. I couldn't help be impressed with the little fellow, and I could hardly ask him to risk his life following me the rest of the way home. With an admittedly stupid smile on my lips, I picked up the wet little puppy and wrapped him in Mister Meagan's Mackintosh for the journey back to Baker Street.

* * *

When I returned, my friend and roommate was nearly right where I left him. Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise's sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save where there was some professional object to be served. "You've returned," Holmes murmured lazily from the couch as I entered. Truly, my friend's capacity for observation was astonishing!

"Yes, and I've brought a friend," I smiled as I displayed the little bull-pup like a trophy.

"So I see." He actually sat up and put his feet on the floor. I had obviously done the unexpected and had brought him out of his ennui. "Bulldog puppy. Seven weeks old I should think. Watson why did you bring it into our home? Surely it will make an unbearable mess."

The puppy and I glanced around at our cluttered and untidy apartment. An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although he could also affect a certain quiet primness of dress when he chose, he was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his Persian slippers before the main entrance where they would constitute a tripping hazard, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very center of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs.

"Really?" I asked sarcastically. "The little fellow would have to work hard to compete with what you've done with the place. It looks like a dung beetle had lost interest in its work and took the opportunity to really let itself go!"

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. There seemed to be little damage that a puppy, or even a full grown bulldog could do to the place. But I knew what my friend's greatest concern was.

Holmes had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by their owner.

The trouble was, to a dog Holmes' documents were merely newspaper spread out on the floor to provide a barrier between nature's call and a difficult-to-clean rug. Even if our little friend was housebroken, my friend's precious documents were in terrible danger. As a matter of fact, the better trained the dog was the greater jeopardy the papers were likely to be in. When this is combined with my companion's current lethargic mood and his insistence that he was the only one allowed to organize his belongings, the dilemma multiplies.

At the moment I was overjoyed to have something that would challenge Sherlock Holmes. I recalled him once saying that life's little puzzles can be more challenging and interesting than a sensational crime and here was puzzle that he would be hard pressed to solve. "I just thought you could use a friend," I teased. "You know, for when you drive me to distraction. I can't be your loyal dog all the time but here is a chap who appears to be born and bred for the job."

"If you want a dog you only had to say so Watson."

"I admit that I can get lonely when you decide to stop speaking for days on end," I joked as I held the little pup in my arms. "But as your doctor I thought the little devil would get you out of your moods. Studies show that people who own dogs live longer healthier lives."

"What's its name?" Holmes interrupted as he gazed wistfully at our guest. "The little tyke looks small enough to fit in a Gladstone bag."

"I don't know," I glanced down at him. "I suppose Gladstone will be a good enough name, until we can come up with a better one."

"I had a dog when I was a boy," Holmes said wistfully as he gazed at the pup with an expression I had never seen him aim at any human, including me. "Smart dog. Good companion. Well behaved too. It was a wonderful tracker. It was from him that I discovered how much one could learn if you put your nose at ground level. It really is impossible to use all of your senses to notice the smallest traces standing up." He stopped, suddenly embarrassed. "I hope you don't expect me to take care of it," he said with deadly seriousness. One would have thought we were talking about a baby.

"Well of course you would," I laughed at his distress. "Taking care of him would teach you to take care of yourself. If you didn't make it a full time job I would have more time to devote to my practice. But if the responsibility is too much for you Holmes I'll turn him over to an animal shelter, all right? It's obvious that you're not ready to be a parent."

"I don't want to feel responsible for your privation," he said stiffly, "I suppose I could put up with its presence for your sake Watson."

I had learned something. Holmes wouldn't mind having a dog about as long as he didn't have to take care of it.

"I'm all right," I assured him.

"Nonsense," he waved disparagingly. "Now that that Carol woman has ended your relationship, it's only natural for you to desire some company. I understand that a dog's love is unconditional."

"This has _nothing to do with Carol_," I insisted testily. "I _don't need a dog_."

"Not to worry," he persisted. "I refuse to interfere with any commitment you have made."

"I have made no commitment."

"Then where did you get it?"

I reported the whole event, with as much detail as if I had been reporting a vital operation in a major case. The dog came and lay at my feet with his nose just not touching the toe of my shoe.

When I came to the end and stopped there was a moment's silence, and then Holmes said, "Gladstone would be an acceptable name for that dog."

"I suppose so," I nodded. "So while you're getting dressed while waiting for Inspector Lestrade to arrive, should I take him to the animal shelter?"

"No." He was emphatic.

"Why not?"

"Because there is a better alternative. The next time we are out we can visit Scotland Yard. We'll give Constable Clark the number on the dog's tag, and ask him to find out who the owner is. Then we can contact the owner directly. Simple as that, and much better for the dog."

He was playing for time. It could happen that the owner was dead or in jail or didn't want the dog back, and if so Holmes could take the position that I had committed myself by bringing the dog home and that it would be dishonorable to renege. That way he could spend all the time he wanted to with _my_ dog. Taking care of a living thing is a partnership though, and I was determined that if Gladstone stayed with us he would be _our _dog.

When lunch arrived Mrs. Hudson seemed delighted with our little guest. Despite his wrinkled and comical appearance she judged the little fellow to be quite loveable.

"Nevertheless," Holmes asked with exaggerated indifference, "would you think him an insufferable nuisance as a cohabitant?"

On the contrary, our landlady declared, he would be most welcome. Provided we were willing to take care of him. Holmes and I were then subjected to a lecture on the importance of feeding, bathing, and lavishing attention on the little fellow. And walking him. She was very insistent that we remember to walk him, or she would add the cleaning charges to our bill. I noticed that she didn't say that the dog would have to leave. Apparently Holmes wasn't the only one who enjoyed a canine's company as a child.

As Mrs. Hudson descended to find something to feed our new roommate Gladstone found something to feed himself. To Holmes' horror, the little tyke was chewing up one of his Parisian slippers. It was as if seeing us in the act of mastication had implanted the idea in the little fellow's brain.

Holmes sprang from the table and retrieved the tattered footwear, but he was too late. The slipper was a total loss. "Hum!" he snorted as he compared the ruined slipper with the intact one. "Now what to do with one slipper? Never mind, I shall find some use for it."

"As a chew toy perhaps?" I suggested.

Holmes picked up the errant puppy and held its face less than an inch from his nose. "Now, for our little friend. He must be disciplined you know. Let him get in the habit and we won't have shoe left in the flat. You are a naughty pup my dear Gladstone, very naughty indeed." He started laughing as the puppy licked his nose. "Ha-ha-ha! You _are_ the charmer aren't you? I think he likes me Watson! Look how he's licking my face! Why don't you ever lick my face I wonder?"

"You don't shave regularly enough," I retorted dryly.

* * *

_Next: The Case of Phillip Love_


	3. The Case of Phillip Love

**Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Puppy**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Die Like a Dog' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

_Chapter Three: The Case of Phillip Love_

My gaze went to little Gladstone. "I've done it this time," I chuckled. "I went out this morning with a scheme to help our finances and before noon I brought back another mouth to feed."

"Not to worry Watson," Holmes said as he glanced out the bay window overlooking the street. "I think the bank is open."

"Constable Clark would like to talk to you Mister Holmes," Mrs. Hudson announced when she came up to take our dishes.

"Thank you Nanny, send him up," Holmes said as he patted his lips with a napkin.

Soon the door opened to reveal the solid and dependable Constable Clark. "Mister Holmes?" he said contritely. "Doctor Watson? Inspector Lestrade would like to see you. There's been a bad business out at 29 Arbor Street and Inspector Lestrade thought that you could help."

Holmes smiled at me. "It seems that Anton Mesmer was right about the power of suggestion. Your presence seems to have planted the idea of summoning us into his mind."

"Apparently so," I grinned back. "I'll get my coat and we'll go."

"I'm not sure about whether I shall go," Holmes snorted. "I am the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather–that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times."

"Come on sir," Clark asked hopefully. "It does seem to be right in your neighborhood. Literally I mean."

"I can't possibly go," Holmes sighed. "I have a little doggie to take care of."

"Holmes you are bored out of your mind and right now we need the fee," I remonstrated sternly. "You're going even if Clarkie and I have to carry you!"

"Oh very well," Holmes sighed melodramatically. "Can I bring the dog?"

"Why not?" I shrugged. "It will keep me from being dragged away in chains for taking him from a crime scene."

"Calm yourself my dear Watson," Holmes purred. "You'll wake up the dog."

I looked down at the floor. Gladstone was asleep in Holmes' hat.

"We'll have to leave him," I said.

"Nonsense," Holmes smiled. "We'll just take the hat."

"Shall I tell the inspector you'll be coming then?" Clark asked.

"What?" Holmes looked at him before waving in a dismissive gesture. "Oh. Of course. Don't worry. Watson knows the way."

"I'll get him there even if I have to drag him," I assured the constable.

"Righto sir," he nodded as he went out the door.

"Let's see it might rain again, so I'll need another hat," he muttered as he went to his room.

"Not to worry, with the amount of disguises you own you should have more hats than you know what do with," I snickered.

Soon Holmes returned, properly dressed but sans hat. His eyes darted about the room in irritation.

"Problem old cock?" I asked him as I leaned against the wall.

"It seems that I don't have any more hats," he admitted sheepishly.

"You do go through them quickly but you should still have one," I said. "What about that bowler?"

"Lost it fighting those miscreants last month."

"Your homburg?"

"Ditched it while tailing the Schuster brothers."

"Your boater?"

"It was destroyed in that fight up the Thames."

"Your top hat?"

"It got ran over by a growler, old fellow."

"How about your fedora?" I asked before I corrected myself. "No wait. The dog is sleeping in it. Can you find your tweed cap?"

"For the life of me, I don't know where it is old boy," Holmes sighed as he surveyed the room. "I don't suppose you could lend me one of yours, my dear Watson?"

"No," I shook my head. "I don't own that many hats and I want to keep the few I have. Do you mean to tell me that aside of the one Gladstone is sleeping in you don't have a single hat?"

"Well, I might have one," he blushed.

Soon we were on our way through the interminable fog towards Arbor Street. As we made our journey, I couldn't help staring at Holmes. He respectably dressed and wearing his Inverness cape in case it should rain again, but as for his hat it was inappropriate to the point of absurdity. Although a deerstalker cap is appropriate for grousing in the country, it's just plain queer in an urban environment.

"Something wrong Watson?" Holmes asked as he looked at me and cradled the sleeping dog in his hat.

"Your hat makes you stand out," I said wryly.

"No, I mean you're falling behind," he corrected as we stopped by a corner to wait for traffic to clear.

"Sorry about that; the weather's making my old injuries act up again," I muttered as I fished around in my pockets. I groaned in frustration.

"Forgot something?" he asked me.

"Yes," I sighed. "I seem to have left my cigarettes at home. Too bad. I'd really love to suck on a fag right now."

"Why didn't you say so my dear Watson?" Holmes smiled as he handed me the sleeping dog. "I should be happy to service your needs." He fished around in his pockets and extracted a cigarette. "Here you go," he said as he put it in my mouth before taking the dog back.

"I could kiss you, Holmes," I sighed as I found my matches.

"You'll have to wait until we get home," he teased.

"I love you Holmes; I want to have your babies," I joked as I lit up.

"Please Watson," Holmes winked. "Let's just see how we get on with a pet before we make any big commitments."

When we arrived at 29 Arbor Street little had changed outside since I had last seen it. Holmes paused to look at the street but it was obvious that the rain had obliterated any traces left behind since the time of the murder.

The lobby nothing noteworthy, unless you count the body at the foot of the stairs and medical examiner and the police standing around. Four men in plainclothes were also standing in a corner. One of them was Mister Meagan, and the others must have been his fellow tenants. Meagan glowered at Holmes when we came in. I couldn't blame him for being insulted.

"Hello Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson," Lestrade greeted as we came in. "We've left everything the way we found it," he added.

Holmes put his hands on his hips and gazed disapprovingly at the footprints on both the tile and carpet. "Congratulations Lestrade," Holmes snorted. "Once again you've managed to pull defeat from the jaws of victory. I don't suppose that you and the lads could have postponed the dancing lessons until after you studied the floor? In this wet weather tracking a man's steps should have been easy."

Lestrade coughed in his fist as the constables and the medical examiner shifted their feet uncomfortably.

"Here," Holmes handed me Gladstone, hat and all, before he took out his magnifying glass and crouched to squint at the floor.

Lestrade looked at me. "I thought you said you didn't own the dog."

"He seems to have adopted us," I shrugged.

"We believe he was involved in the murder," the inspector insisted.

"The little fellow is impulsive surely, but I think that a homicide is beyond him," Holmes purred dryly as he scanned the floor.

Lestrade glowered at him before he collected himself and started again. "Could you read the number on his tag for me?" he asked as he fished in his pockets and produced a pad and pencil.

I did so and asked him why he was interested.

"We believe the puppy was owned by the murdered man," Lestrade said. "It's possible that the dog was present when the man was murdered."

"Really?" Holmes said lazily. "He seems a little young to testify before a jury, although I admit that his honest little face makes him very convincing."

"Really, Holmes," Lestrade snorted. "You'd joke at your own necktie party. Do you want to hear the particulars of this case or not?"

"My apologies," my friend drawled as he crawled on all fours. "Do tell inspector. Don't let me stop you."

"This morning a man named Phillip Love was murdered here. Love lived on Perry Street just a few blocks away. He arrived here with the dog on a leash, about ten-twenty this morning. The landlord, named Olsen, lives in the basement, and he was sitting at his front window, and he saw Love arrive with the dog and turn in at the entrance. About ten minutes later he saw the dog come out, with no leash, and right after the dog a man came out. The man was Victor Talent, a barrister, the tenant of the ground-floor apartment. Anyhow, Olsen says Talent walked off, and the dog stayed there on the sidewalk."

"Mm-hm," Holmes grunted as he crawled around on the floor and finally reached the body.

Lestrade continued. "About twenty minutes later, around ten minutes to six, Olsen heard someone yelling his name and went to the rear and up one flight to the ground-floor hall. Two men were there, a live one and a dead one. The live one was Ross Chaffee, a painter, the tenant of the top-floor studio. The dead one was the man that had arrived with the dog. He was just as you see him. Chaffee says he found it when he came down to go to an appointment, and that's all he knows. He stayed there while Olsen went out and summoned a constable. A Maria arrived at ten-fifty-eight. I arrived at eleven-ten and noticed Doctor Watson. Excellent timing I might add." He glanced in my direction.

Holmes merely grunted. "Watson, what do you make of this?"

I handed Gladstone to Clarkie and went to Holmes' side. "Strangled," I said while I knelt down over the body. "Ligature marks indicate he was strangled with some kind of cord or band."

"Yes," Holmes turned the dead man's head slightly. "Notice the bruising on the side of his chin?"

"Someone must have struck him in the chin and knocked him out cold," I nodded. I examined his fingernails. "No evidence of defensive wounds. Mister Love must have had what they call a glass jaw."

"Yes, and now he has a closed windpipe," Holmes murmured.

I looked at Love. He was a good looking man about my age. Face and bodily proportions were symmetrical and pleasing to the eye, but now he was dead, and it is only in the theatre that death doesn't spoil a person's looks. He was dressed respectably, with a wide brimmed hat and a raincoat to protect him from the uncertain weather.

As I eyed Mister Love's Mackintosh I thought of my own errant raincoat and glanced in Meagan's direction. This wasn't the time to get my raincoat back, and I was glad that I hadn't lent Holmes one of my hats. I had lost my shirt and literally lost my raincoat and I wasn't going to add any hats to the list.

I looked at the deerstalker cap on my friend's head and laughed. It had to be the one of the most inappropriate things to do in presence of a murdered man that you could think of and I coughed quickly to cover it up.

"Something amusing, Watson?" Holmes muttered.

"No, of course not old fellow," I said guiltily. "I'm just glad you chose to throw your hat into the ring."

Holmes looked up to glower at me before taking the deerstalker cap off.

"This was found in the pocket of his raincoat, Mister Holmes," Lestrade said as he dangled a dog's leash before him. "We believe it was used to strangle him with."

"Ah!" Holmes snatched it out of his hand and circled it around his neck. "Look Watson, the leash fits the mark around his neck perfectly." He looked back up at the inspector. "Congratulations Lestrade, you seem to have found the murder weapon. Well done."

Lestrade held his hand out expectantly, but Holmes simply rose and walked over to Constable Clark. He attached the leash to Gladstone's collar and disconnected it before handing it over to Lestrade. "The leash definitely fits on the little fellow's collar all right."

"Is it alright if we move the body?" the medical examiner asked.

"Hm?" Holmes looked at him. "Of course. Don't let me get in the way," he said as he stepped over the body to go up the stairs. He stopped at the foot of the stairs to inspect it thoroughly.

"If you don't mind, I'll take these gentlemen downtown to get their statements," Lestrade said. "Then I'll get Victor Talent's."

"Lestrade, wait," Holmes said as he trotted over to the inspector's side. "Not just yet. I want to see them first."

"Do you have any questions for them?" Lestrade asked as he took the leash from Holmes.

"No, I just want to see them," Holmes said as he surveyed each man from head to toe. "I know Meagan, but who are the other three?"

"My name is…" began the one whose clothes was spattered in paint.

"Their names are James Olsen, Chaffee, and Jerome Aland," Lestrade interrupted as he pointed at each man one by one. "The landlord, the painter, and the performer. The lawyer is missing…"

"And Meagan is a photographer," Holmes nodded.

"I never told you I was a photographer," Meagan protested. "How did you find that out?"

"I may not be a bloodhound but I'd have to have a cold not to smell the silver salts you use in your work," Holmes shrugged. "You should thank Lestrade, Mister Meagan; now that he's broken my ennui I believe that I shall be available to find your wife after all."

"What?" Meagan snorted. "Are you having me on?"

"I thought you were working on _my_ case Mister Holmes," Lestrade added indignantly.

"On such an easy case as this one?" Holmes chuckled. "You're just not trying Lestrade. I should have it wrapped up in a day or two at the most."

"Well aren't we sure of ourselves?" Lestrade grumbled. "Care to share you theories with the rest of us Mister Holmes?"

"Not until I check the evidence," Holmes shrugged. "Even the greatest prophets should check their facts before they make their predictions. If you don't mind I'd like to have a look upstairs. I trust the thin carpet might give up some of its secrets to me."

"Is it alright if I take these men downtown Your Majesty?" Lestrade asked sarcastically.

"Alright. You may have them," Holmes said as he hung his inverness cloak on a peg on the wall. "I shall be down shortly to listen in, if it's all the same with you. Straight from the horse's mouth as it were. In the meantime Watson, you better hail a cab and have it wait for us. Won't be a moment."

"What about the dog?" I asked him.

"We'll take him with us," Holmes said as he started up the stairs. "He probably needs a walk anyways."

Constable Clark was good enough to hand me some evidence bags to put the little fellow's leavings in as well as a pair of gloves to pick them up with.

* * *

_Next:_ _What Jerome Aland Had to Tell_


	4. What Jerome Aland Had to Tell

**Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Puppy**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Die Like a Dog' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout_

_Chapter Four: What Jerome Aland Had to Tell_

I waited until after Gladstone had his walk and we were riding a cab to Scotland Yard before I intruded upon my friend's thoughts. "I am inclined to think––" said I.

"I should do so," Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently as the dog sitting in the hat in his lap took his second nap of the day.

I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals; but I'll admit that I was annoyed at the sardonic interruption. "Really, Holmes," said I severely, "you are a little trying at times."

He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate answer to my remonstrance. "Watson, just how far down Queer Street are we?"

Blushing at my own personal weakness, I was forced to admit: "Pretty far actually. I'm sorry Holmes; I shouldn't have gotten us in as deep as I have."

"Not to worry," Holmes murmured in a soothing voice. "Mrs. Hudson has always understood in the past."

"Hopefully I'll get my novel published," I said hopefully. "In the future we should always make the rent on time."

"It's not even a novel," Holmes sniffed. "It's barely a novella. If your friend Doyle hadn't added all that fictitious nonsense in the second half it would be a novelette."

I have no doubt that the blood rushed to my face. "Holmes!" I sputtered through grit teeth. "You have got to be the most insufferable son of a––"

"My blushes, Watson!" Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice. "No coarse language please, not while little Gladstone is with us! Show some sensitivity to the little tyke; there's a good fellow."

"_You_ can be insensitive to the point of cruelty!" I protested. "My first foray into the publishing world is a celebration of your genius, and what kind of thanks do I get? I harp on your virtues and downplay your vices! Tell me: Did I mention your drug habit? The way you play your violin at odd hours of the night? I told my readers that you're never up after ten at night when in truth I never know _when_ you'll be up! When you wake and when you sleep is unpredictable; the only certainty is that it has nothing to do with whether or not the sun is up! I'd call you the Bat-man but science can predict when a bat will let his roommate get some _sleep _you silly-!"

"A touch! A distinct touch!" cried Holmes. "You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humor, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself. But you're right, my dear fellow, I must thank you for keeping my numerous faults hidden from the public. I notice that you also omitted your habit of gambling away our money or the fact that I am so generous with mine. Perhaps if you added all those little facts to your story it would be long enough to truly be a novel."

I nearly exploded over the hypocrisy of the suggestion. "_You_ were the one who told me that some facts should be suppressed! I distinctly remember you telling me; it was today in fact!"

"I merely wanted to impress you with the fact that if my methods fascinate you so much you should be writing a monograph on the science of deduction rather than writing a romantic adventure story," Holmes retorted in the driest of tones. "Honestly, that silly tale in Utah that young Doyle added reads like a penny-dreadful. You've reduced the scientific art with which I earn my living into a lurid, sensational story that no self-respecting criminologist will take seriously. If by some miracle your story is published, official police around the world will scoff at those who use my methods. Face facts, Watson: Your account of our first case together may sell more copies than a dry treatise, but it will be significantly less enlightening to mankind at large."

I admit at this point I was being childish, but an artist can be as protective of his creation as a parent can be to his own offspring. "You just don't want me to sell more copies of our _Study in Scarlet_ than you sold of your monograph on how to identify the ash of various tobaccos! Admit it; you just don't want your methods or your private life to be exposed to the world, do you? That's why you let the official police take credit for your cases. You're afraid to be put under a microscope aren't you? You take great pleasure at reading others at a glance but couldn't stand it if someone else did the same to you! Admit it!"

"Watson…" Holmes began as Gladstone barked.

"Admit it!"

"You're upset," Holmes began.

"Bark!" added Gladstone.

"Admit it, Holmes! Admit it! Admit it!" I chanted childishly as Holmes tried to get a word in edgewise and the dog barked. Not my finest moment I must confess, but God did make me mortal with all the faults and weaknesses that plague mankind.

"I'm sorry Watson," my friend apologized contritely when I had finally vented my spleen. "I shouldn't have goaded you like that. You're tense," he purred in a calm soothing voice as he stroked Gladstone's head. "You're tired, and I've been taking too much of your time. You're concerned about our finances and feeling a touch guilty as well. I admit I chose a bad time to needle you. I would never get in the way of a genuine attempt to inform the world of the importance of observation and scientific analysis. You know that."

"Then why in Heaven's name are you criticizing my work?" I demanded.

Holmes frowned in thought. "I don't know," he said before he broke into a huge grin. "It just… makes me smile!" At this Holmes held his breath in an attempt to avoid laughing at the murderous glare I was giving him. So absurd was his expression as he sat there in the hansom while wearing that silly deerstalker cap that it was I myself who burst out in laughter.

Gladstone barked as we both laughed like idiots. He obviously thought we were barking and wanted to join in.

"So what did your inspection of the upstairs tell you?" I asked when we had regained our composure.

"Nothing I didn't expect to find," Holmes replied grudgingly. "Although the carpet was so thin in the halls upstairs that I'm surprised it wasn't hardwood. I couldn't get into the residents' flats of course. Breaking and entering under such circumstantial suspicions seemed a bit excessive at the time."

"So what did you see?" I prodded.

"What I expected to see," he replied evasively.

"And what was that exactly?" I continued.

"Trifles."

"Holmes," I said sternly. "You are being deliberately evasive. I promise not to give your prime suspect the evil eye."

"It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have evidence," Holmes sighed.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that I saw what I expected to see because I theorized far too soon," he muttered. "The imprints on that threadbare carpet were faint to the point of nonexistence, but at least I saw nothing that disproved my hypothesis."

"So what's wrong?" I asked.

"I fear I may have missed something that would challenge my theory," Holmes sighed. "My assumptions and instincts may be blinding me to the truth. If you make theories before you possess the facts, you are in danger of dismissing those facts that challenge your theories. In my own way, I seem to be tackling this case the same way as Lestrade would."

"Come now," I chided. "Surely it can't be that bad."

"We shall see when we reach Scotland Yard," my friend said. "I'd like to have another look at the dead man and his effects before I pass judgment. Ah here we are," he said as the hansom turned onto Whitehall Place.

In those days the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Service had expanded from 4 Whitehall Place into several neighboring addresses, including 3, 5, 21 and 22 Whitehall Place; 8 and 9 Great Scotland Yard, and several stables. Construction on the Met's new headquarters on the Victoria Embankment overlooking the river wouldn't begin until the following year.

Holmes knew his way to Lestrade's office and navigated his way through the buildings with ease. We caught up with the good inspector in the unfriendly, confining room used for interrogation. It was lit by strategically placed gaslights that somehow managed to make the room too bright and too dim at the same time.

Inspector Lestrade was interviewing the one of the occupants of 29 Arbor Street, specifically: Aland, the performer. Jerome Aland was a short, skinny untidy individual whose messy, wild curly hair looked like it was a nest for rodents.

The good inspector looked up at us as we entered with his beady, ferret-like eyes. "There you are," Lestrade muttered. "I hope you'll forgive me for not waiting. Is it all right if we continue your majesty?"

"Of course my dear inspector," Holmes smiled while tipping his hat. My friend's false embarrassment was replaced by the genuine article when he realized that he was still wearing that deerstalker cap he had put on earlier. Blushing, he snatched it off his head but not before he received a snort of laughter from both Lestrade and myself. "_Et tu_, my dear Watson?" he murmured to me.

"You're always pointing out the trifling details that the rest of us miss," I snickered quietly. "It's always nice to even the ledger on occasion."

Lestrade and I laughed again before the good inspector cleared his throat and assumed a businesslike tone. "Now, then Mister Aland, where were we? How long has Richard Meagan occupied the apartment below you?"

"Nine days," Aland replied in his nervous squeaky voice. "He took it a week ago Tuesday."

"Who was the previous tenant?" Lestrade asked. "Just before him."

"There wasn't any. It was empty."

"Empty ever since you've been here?"

"No, I've told you, a girl had it, but she moved out about three months ago," Aland explained. "Her name is Jewel Jones, and she's a fine artist, and she got me my job at the music hall where I work now." His mouth worked. "I know what you're doing, you're trying to make it nasty, and you're trying to catch me getting my facts twisted. Bringing that dog here to growl at me - can I help it if I don't like dogs?"

At that remark, I looked at the bulldog puppy in my hands. Gladestone barked once and then whined before licking his lips.

Aland ran his fingers, both hands, through his hair. When he had managed to make his hair even more disheveled, he gestured like the music hall performer he was. "Die like a dog," he said. "That's what Phil did, died like a dog. Poor Phil, I wouldn't want to see that again."

"You said," Holmes ventured, "that you and he were good friends."

His head jerked up. "I did not. Did I say that?"

"More or less," my friend purred. "Maybe not in those words. I'm sorry. Weren't you?"

"We were not," Aland announced miserably. "I haven't got any good friends."

"You just said that the girl that used to live in Mister Meagan's flat got you a job," Holmes shrugged. "That sounds like a good friend. Or did she owe you something?"

"Not a blessed thing," Aland blushed." Why do you keep bringing her up?"

"I didn't bring her up, you did," Holmes shrugged. My good friend Lestrade only asked who was the former tenant in the apartment below you. Why, would you rather keep her out of it?"

"I don't have to keep her out," Aland said in a defiant sulk. "She's not in it."

"Perhaps not," Holmes shared a wink with Lestrade. "Did she know Philip Love?"

"I guess so," Aland shrugged. "Sure she did."

"How well did she know him?" Lestrade interjected.

He shook his head. "Now you're getting personal, and I'm the wrong person. If Phil was alive you could ask him, and he might tell you. Me, I don't know."

Lestrade smiled at him. "All that does, Mr. Aland, is make us curious. Somebody in your house murdered Love. So we ask you questions, and when we come to one you shy at, naturally we wonder why. If you don't like talking about Love and that girl, think what it could mean. For instance, it could mean that the girl was yours, and Love took her away from you, and that was why you killed him when he came here yesterday. Or it could - "

"She wasn't mine!"

"So you say," Lestrade's manner indicated that he was not convinced. "Or it could mean that although she wasn't yours, you were under a deep obligation to her, and Love had given her a dirty deal, or he was threatening her with something, and she wanted him disposed of, and you obliged. Or of course it could be merely that Love had something on you."

"Blimey!" Aland waved his hands in surrender. "You're in the wrong business!" he asserted. "You ought to be writing for the theatre with an imagination like that!"

Lestrade stuck with him only a few more minutes, having got all he could hope for under the circumstances. Holmes didn't bother chime in and the interview ended quickly. As for myself, I didn't see where the performer's testimony had got us. The only further item I gathered from Jerome Aland was that he wasn't trying to get from under by slipping in any insinuations about his fellow tenants. He had no opinions or ideas about who had killed Phillip Love.

"He's hiding something," Lestrade grumbled after Mister Aland had been escorted out. "Too bad it doesn't mean anything."

"How so?" I asked.

"My dear Watson, he's in the theatre!" Holmes chuckled. "A music hall performer is bound to have a bagful of embarrassing secrets that would condemn him in the eyes of the public, even if the law doesn't take notice."

I nodded in surrender. The Bohemian lot who perform in the music halls could make even Holmes' eccentricities seem commonplace. But still, I couldn't shake the suspicion that we should have asked _what kind_ of performer Jerome Aland was. If he was an actor he it meant that he made his living with a skill tailor made for deception. Who better to hide a guilty conscience than a man who surrendered his identity every time he went to work?

* * *

_Next: __The Tenants' Testimony _


	5. The Tenants' Testimony

**Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Puppy**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Die Like a Dog' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout_

_Chapter Five: The Tenants' Testimony_

The next man Lestrade summoned was Richard Meagan, the photographer. Mister Meagan was a middle-sized, strongly built man with a square jaw and a thick neck, and whose handlebar moustache was no doubt the envy of his fellow tenants.

"Now Mister Meagan," Lestrade cleared his throat. "If you don't mind we'd like to ask you a few questions."

"You know damn well I mind," he snapped. Apparently his mood had not improved greatly since his encounter with Holmes this morning. Remembering my frustrating cab ride with Holmes, I could empathize with Mister Meagan. Of course having Sherlock Holmes lounging in the same room as the photographer's interrogation could try the patience of any man. After all, he was the very man who had put Meagan in such a poor humor in the first place. To underscore that fact Richard Meagan glared at Holmes with a malignancy that was unsettling. "What's he doing here?" the photographer demanded.

"We at the yard have asked ourselves the same question many times in the past," Lestrade muttered. "As I explained earlier, Mister Holmes is here as a consultant. Now then, let's get started. I understand that you moved into 29 Arbor Street nine days ago. Please tell me exactly how you came to take the apartment."

He glared at Lestrade as if he were a simpleton. I hate to admit it but I have caught Holmes doing the same thing once or twice. "You want do know? Do you _really_ want to know?"

"Yes," Lestrade smiled condescendingly. "I _really_ want to know."

Meagan chuckled bitterly as he shook his head at the table that was placed between his chair and Lestrade's. "I'm a professional photographer," he announced as he looked back up at us. "In Birmingham," he added. "Two years ago I married a girl named Margaret Ryan. Seven months later she left me. I didn't know whether she went alone or with somebody. She just left. She left Birmingham too, or anyway I couldn't find her there, and her family never saw her or heard from her. About five months later, about a year ago, a man I know, a businessman I do work for, came back from a trip to London and said he'd seen her in a theatre here with a man. He went and spoke to her, but she claimed he was mistaken. He was sure it was her. I came to London and spent a week looking around but didn't find her. I didn't go to the police because I didn't want to. You want a better reason, but that's mine."

"I'll skip that." Lestrade was writing in his notebook. "Go ahead."

"Two weeks ago I went to look at a show of pictures at the Barber Institute of Fine Arts," Meagan grunted. "There was a painting there, an oil, a big one. It was called 'Three Young Mares at Pasture,' and it was an interior, a room, with three women in it. One of them was on a couch, and two of them were on a rug on the floor. They were eating apples. The one on the couch was my wife. I was sure of it the minute I saw her, and after I stood and studied it I was even surer. There was absolutely no doubt of it."

"We're not challenging that," Lestrade assured him. "What did you do?"

"The artist's signature looked like Chappie, but of course the catalogue settled that. It was Ross Chaffee. I went to the Institute office and asked about him. They thought he lived in London but weren't sure. I had some work on hand I had to finish, and it took a couple of days, and then I came to London. I had no trouble finding Ross Chaffee; I went to see him at his studio – right there at the house. First I told him I was interested in that figure in his painting, that I thought she would be just right to model for some photographs I wanted to do, but he said that his opinion of photography as a medium was such that he wouldn't care to supply models for it, and he was bowing me out, so I told him how it was. I told him the whole thing. Then he was different. He sympathized with me and said he would be glad to help me if he could, but he had painted that picture more than a year ago, and he used so many different models for his pictures that it was impossible to remember which was which." Meagan stopped, and Lestrade looked up from the notebook. He said aggressively, "That sounded downy to me."

"Go right ahead," Lestrade shrugged. "You're telling it."

"I say it was downy. A photographer might use hundreds of models in a year, and he might forget, but not a painter. Not a picture like that. I got a little tactless with him, and then I apologized. He said he might be able to refresh his memory and asked me to call upon him the next day. When I went back the next day to see him, but he said he simply couldn't remember and doubted if he ever could. I didn't get tactless again. Coming in the house, I had noticed a sign that there was a furnished flat to let, and when I left Chaffee I found the landlord and rented it, and went to my hotel for my bags and moved in. I knew damn well my wife had modeled for that picture, and I knew I could find her. I wanted to be as close as I could to Chaffee and the people who came to see him."

"What progress did you make?" I interjected, now thoroughly engrossed in his story. Holmes shot me a withering look. Perhaps he was right and I _did_ tend to fixate on a tale's romantic elements.

"Not much," Meagan shrugged, grateful that someone was showing an interest in his predicament. "I tried to get friendly with Chaffee but didn't get very far. I met the other two tenants, Talent and Aland, but that didn't get me anywhere. Finally I decided I would have to get some expert help, and that was why I went to see Mister Holmes there, for all the good it did!"

"You're preaching to the choir there, my friend," Lestrade commented dryly as flipped a page of his notebook. "Go back a little. During that week, besides the tenants here, how many of Chaffee's friends and acquaintances did you meet?"

"Just two, as I've told you," Meagan replied. "A young woman, a model, in his studio one day, and I don't remember her name, and a man that was there another day, a man that Chaffee said buys his pictures. His name was Braunstein."

"You're leaving out Philip Love," Holmes interjected.

Meagan leaned forward and put a fist on the table. "Yes, and I'm going to leave him out. I never saw him or heard of him."

"My apologies," Holmes nodded. "My mistake."

"Speaking of seeing and hearing, did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary this morning?" Lestrade asked in a bored tone.

"No and no!" The red eyes looked redder. "I've told it at least _three times_!"

"Our apologies Mister Meagan," shrugged a patient Inspector Lestrade. "This is the way it's done. We're not trying to catch you in some little discrepancy, but you could have omitted something important. Just assume I haven't heard it before."

At this, the puppy in my arms jerked and kicked as it struggled to free itself. Apologizing, I left the room before exiting the building to set him free so he could move about and restore circulation in his canine muscles. Holmes would inform me to anything of note that I missed.

As an extremely light rain sprinkled feebly from the heavens I reflected what we had learned from our interview with Mister Meagan. Although he seemed to have no connection to Phillip Love his general temperament made it easy to imagine the photographer inflicting violence upon another man.

When I returned with little Gladstone both Holmes and Lestrade looked bored.

"Did I miss anything?" I asked.

"Nothing worth repeating my dear Watson," Holmes drawled. For a moment I could almost see the languid lounger in his bathrobe at Baker Street instead of the alert sleuth interviewing suspects at Scotland Yard. Holmes was growing bored with the case already. That meant that either he had solved it or the present line of questioning wasn't going anywhere.

"We're just calling in the next witness," Lestrade sighed. "Tell Clarkie to send in the next one."

This was the painter, Ross Chaffee, and he was dressed for it, in an old brown smock. He was by far the handsomest of the tenants, tall, erect, with artistic wavy dark hair and features he must have enjoyed looking at.

I had ample time to enjoy them too as he stood smiling at us, completely at ease, smiling at the bulldog puppy sniffing at his ankles. Gladstone was also at ease. When it became quite clear that no blood was going to be shed, Lestrade asked, "You know the dog, don't you, Mr. Chaffee?"

"Certainly. He's a beautiful animal."

"Pat him."

"With pleasure." He bent gracefully. "Puddles, do you know your master's gone?" He scratched behind the ears. "Gone forever, Puddles, and that's too bad." He straightened. "Anything else?"

Holmes groaned. "Oh no! Puddles! That's a terribly demeaning name, too demeaning even for a dog!"

"Phil had a cruel sense of humor," Chaffee smiled as he scratched Gladstone, or rather Puddles, behind the ears. "He thought it would be hilarious to bring the dog with him wherever he went and tell people its name is Puddles. He housebroke pretty quickly though. Phil was rather proud of it."

"And _we're_ rather grateful for it," Lestrade finished. "If we're done with the weekly meeting of the Canine Canonization Society, can we get on with investigating the murder please?"

"If we must," Chaffee grinned. "I know there's no use complaining about these interruptions to my work. Under the circumstances. Only don't prolong it unnecessarily," he requested.

"Believe me, I'm trying to get on with my work the same as you Mister Chaffee," Lestrade said in a tired voice. "Maybe we could help each other and get back to our jobs as quickly as we can, what do you say?"

"Of course Inspector," he nodded. "Ask away."

"I have your statement of how you found the body," Lestrade continued, "but now I want to know all about Mister Love and your fellow tenants."

"You want to know the dirt so you can determine who killed poor Phil?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"That's about right," Lestrade nodded.

"Well, I don't believe I can help you any. I can't say I'm a total stranger to dirt; that would be smug; but what you're after - no. You want my opinion of Love, whom I knew quite well; he was in some respects admirable but had his full share of faults. I would say approximately the same of Talent. I have known Aland only casually - certainly not intimately. I know no more of Meagan than you do. I haven't the slightest notion why any of them might have wanted to kill poor Phil. If you expect - "

"You said that Mister Love had a cruel sense of humor," Holmes interrupted.

"Did I?"

"Yes. You did."

Chaffee's smile was embarrassed now. "Well, I hate to speak ill of the dead but I hate to lie to Scotland Yard even more. Yes, Phil had a mean, you might say cruel sense of humor. He had his heroic side and his villainous side; so do we all. I'm not a stereotypical temperamental artist but even _I've_ been tempted to hit him at times but you don't seriously believe that someone would kill him for some ridiculous thing he said, do you?"

"That remains to be seen," Holmes shrugged noncommittally.

"How do you get on with the other tenants?" Lestrade asked. "Did Love get on with them as well?"

"Mister Talent was his lawyer," Chaffee shrugged. "We get on alright but he can be a bit of an automaton. Victor's a real martinet about keeping promises, but he has no spontaneity. He has his daily routine all planned out and gets cross when he has to change it. Now Mister Aland, _there's_ a temperamental artist. Every stereotype you can have of an artist applies to him. It's funny really. Meagan's the new fellow. Can't say much other that he's a bit of a pain."

"How so?" the inspector asked.

"Every time I turn around I'm always tripping over him," the artist grimaced.

"It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that he thinks you know where to find his wife does it?" I interjected.

"Oh he told you that did he?"

I shook my head. "I'm sorry I shouldn't have –"

"No-no," Holmes purred. "You go ahead Watson. Lestrade, why don't we let the good doctor join the fun?" When the Inspector Lestrade shrugged in response, Holmes continued to encourage me. "You had something on your mind Watson. Go ahead and let it out."

"As long as you're not going to waste our time," Lestrade warned me.

I said I wouldn't. "There are a couple of points," I told the artist, "that I wonder about a little. Of course it could be merely a coincidence that Richard Meagan came to town looking for his wife, and came to see you, and rented a flat below you just nine days before Love was murdered, but a coincidence like that will have to stand some going over. Quite frankly, Mr. Chaffee, there are those, and I happen to be one of them, who find it hard to believe that you couldn't remember who modeled for an important figure in a picture you painted. I know what you say, but it's still hard to believe."

"My dear sir." Chaffee was still smiling. "Then you must think I'm lying."

"I didn't say so."

"But you do, of course." He shrugged. "To what end? What deep design am I cherishing?"

I wasn't going to let him change the subject. "I wouldn't know," I replied. "You say you wanted to help Mister Meagan find his wife."

"No, not that I wanted to," Chaffee corrected me. "I was willing to. He was a horrible nuisance."

"He must have been a quite a pest."

"He was. He is."

"It should have been worth some effort to get rid of him. Did you make any?"

"I told him that if I remembered her face or saw her again that I would let him know," Chaffee announced with injured pride, "but I don't see what this has to do with Phil's murder. Why? If I remember her face or anything about her should I let _you_ know?" he asked sarcastically.

"Couldn't hurt." Holmes shrugged.

"If this conversation is going anywhere you should let _me_ know!" Lestrade added rather testily. "I don't think this line of questioning is going anywhere. We're done with you for right now, Mister Chafee. Don't let the door hit you and your way out."

Chaffee seemed to think that was funny, but his smug grins seemed morbid for a man who had recently lost a close friend. If a friend of mine was murdered on my doorstep, and I was the first one to find the body it would shake me to my bones. Could it be that Chaffee didn't really like Love at all? Had the first person to have found the body been the one who put it there? I think it was Holmes himself who once said that 'art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.'

The interview with the lawyer, Victor Talent was incredibly disappointing. He was an inch shorter than me, and a few years older, with his weight starting to collect around the middle. He was dark-skinned, with eyes to match, and his nose hooked to point down. "I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly answer questions about Phillip Love," he announced when he was seated on the other side of the table in the interrogation room and Lestrade had asked his first question.

"And why not Mister Talent?" the inspector asked as he tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.

"Anything I say in this room will have legal ramifications," he said in a clipped, almost pedantic voice. "I have no wish to slander any of my fellow tenants or my good friend and client Phillip Love. If you wish to ask me any questions about him or anybody he knew, I will require written permission from his family and those involved."

"Are you joking, Mister Talent?" gasped an exasperated Lestrade.

"I never joke, Inspector." I could believe that statement. If Victor Talent ever cracked a smile it would noteworthy enough to appear in the Times.

Lestrade kept after him for a while to no avail. Holmes made a big show of leaning against the wall and pretending to fall asleep before excusing himself. Taking the hint, I made and excuse and took Gladstone outside again.

Victor Talent was certainly being uncooperative, even for a lawyer. Could it be that he had something to hide? It would certainly explain stonewalling an investigation into the death of his 'good friend and client Phillip Love.' He was the one who let Gladstone out of the building that morning. If Love had gone to seen Talent and taken the dog into his apartment, Talent would need to move both the body and the dog wouldn't he?

* * *

_Next: Cherchez La Femme_


	6. Cherchez La Femme

** Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Puppy**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Die Like a Dog' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout_

_Chapter Six: Cherchez La Femme_

Fortunately, the lads at Scotland Yard were very understanding when it came to little Gladstone's needs. They shared some dog food and some water and showed me where to take the little tyke for a walk without getting eaten by the dogs on the force. There was no point second guessing the coroner and reexamining the body since the verdict of strangulation was so plain. Holmes told me that he would keep himself busy by examining the dead man's clothing and possessions. That left me to babysit a bulldog puppy that needed a leash, Holmes' fedora that we had carried the puppy around in and Holmes' deerstalker cap that he refused to carry on his person for some reason.

Holmes found me outside in the yard. "Ah, Watson, so there you are my fine fellow. I think we have learned all we can expect to learn here. I suppose we can go home now."

"Home? But what about the case?"

"Solved my dear fellow. Everything was as I knew it would be my dear Watson." Holmes held out his hand. "My hat if you please."

I handed him his deerstalker cap.

He frowned as he concealed it in his jacket before extending his hand once again. "My _other _hat if you please Watson," he said firmly.

"You mean Gladstone's hat?" I teased as I fanned the air with Holmes' fedora.

"_My_ hat," Holmes insisted.

"Gladstone has been sitting in it all day," I informed him. "It's a bit doggy."

"Oh I like it doggy," Holmes replied earnestly.

"It's very doggy actually."

"No matter, no matter," Holmes smiled with forced amiability. "Hand over _le chapeau __s'il vous plaît__?"_

"I think it's a bit doggier than you like it, Holmes."

"I don't care _how_ infernally doggy it is; hand it over with all speed."

"Very well."

He put his fedora on his head defiantly and nodded before striking a dramatic pose. He then frowned, sniffed the air and removed his hat so he could examine it. "It _is _a bit on the doggy side isn't it, old bean?"

"Told you so," I smirked. Gladstone trotted up to us as if curious about our conversation.

"It could be a _smidge_ doggier than I would prefer," Holmes admitted.

"Really?" I chuckled. "I thought you fancied it that way."

"Perhaps we'll let Gladstone borrow it on the way home," my friend murmured as he handed the black fedora back to me. "I'll get it cleaned later. We must remember to visit the haberdasher's and at some time buy Gladstone here a new leash. In the meantime, it appears that I shall have to make do with this." Reluctantly he pulled his deerstalker cap out of his jacket and put it on.

I chuckled and picked up Gladstone and put him in the fedora before pausing to admire my companion. "You know standing there in that deerstalker's cap, in your Inverness cape, you present a striking figure."

"The gentleman poacher?"

"No, it's just, the deerstalker's cap. It's the hat of a hunter. And here you are, Sherlock Holmes the hunter of men, scouring the streets of London for murderers and ne'er do wells. If Doyle manages to get our book published I'll suggest that image for the cover."

"Watson if you ever make such a suggestion I shall forcefully demonstrate how to commit a murder without leaving behind a shred of admissible evidence."

The next morning there was no sign of the idle lounger from the day before; Holmes was transformed into a man of action. He wasted no time divvying up the responsibilities. He sent me to a shop that dealt with pets and their care. Somewhat miffed about being stuck with the menial chores, I asked him where he was going.

"Why to question the one suspect whose interview we missed. James Olsen, the landlord," Holmes said.

"I thought you said that the case was solved?" I frowned.

"It is, Watson, it is," he assured me. "I was just hoping that he could help me fill in some of the gaps. Give me the whole picture as it were. Tell Mrs. Hudson that there will be three for our midday meal." He glanced down at the dog. "Not including little Gladstone of course."

"Of course," I shrugged. "Might I ask who our guest will be?"

"I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise," Holmes chuckled. "Well back soon. Ta-ta my dear Watson."

Later that morning Holmes returned with a young lady in tow. She was a delicate thing whose perfectly symmetrical features were marred by an obvious state of agitation. Her large dark eyes gave her the appearance of being perpetually surprised and at the same time stirred a protective instinct in the observer. Her sensuous mouth didn't seem to belong on her innocent, almost childlike face, more appropriate ladies of a more scarlet nature than her respectable dress would imply. Where Holmes had found her was as great a mystery to me as the murder of Phillip Love. "Do make yourself comfortable my dear," I greeted in what I hoped was a fatherly fashion. "Can I make you a cup of tea?"

Holmes spoke over her quiet, almost silent reply. "This is my good friend and roommate Doctor Watson. Watson, this young lady goes by the name of Jewel Jones. She used to rent the flat at 29 Arbor that Mister Meagan is using now."

"The same girl that got Mister Aland his job in the music hall?" I asked.

"The same," Holmes nodded. "Now, we're going to need your room for an hour, and we need to get this place ready to receive visitors. I've got Aland, Chaffee, Meagan, and Talent to come over and I'll be surprised if Lestrade and his men don't follow them."

"You're going to expose the murderer right here in our rooms then?" I asked. "Is this because Miss Jones and Mister Aland are in the theatre?"

"My dear Watson, how could I resist?" he winked.

"How could you indeed?" I smiled as I shook my head. "Very well Holmes. I'll help you get the stage ready."

Our luncheon was a bit awkward. Miss Jones was uncommunicative and withdrawn. I tried to assure her that Holmes and I would protect her from any threat but it was pointless to try to crack her impregnable shell. Holmes assured me that she would communicate when the time came. It was then that I began to wonder if Holmes had coerced her into taking part in his little drama.

They arrived almost an hour past lunch, which quite frankly didn't give us much time to clear some space for them. Holmes was good enough to haul the documents he had littered the flat with into his room and I placed Miss Jones and little Gladstone in my room. It was plain that Miss Jones didn't want to be here but she appreciated a place to hide and she was familiar with the dog.

Holmes greeted our guests and put them in the chairs we had provided before seating himself. I stayed standing in order to get the best view of the proceedings. Now that I was trying to publish my friend's exploits he had gone out of his way to perform for me and I didn't want to miss a thing.

"Gentlemen," my friend purred in a superior tone. "Over twenty-four hours ago Phillip Love was killed in the house where you gentlemen live. The circumstances indicate that one of you killed him. But I won't rehash the multifarious details which you have already discussed at length with the police; you are familiar with them. In the meantime Mister Meagan wished to hire me to find his wayward wife. Mister Meagan, does your offer still stand?"

"No it does not," he growled.

Holmes face fell. "Oh dear me, that's too bad. For during the course of my investigations I found Mrs. Meagan and I was hoping to earn a fee. No matter. If you're not interested we can return to the matter of Phillip Love. You see…"

"Yes!" Meagan barked. "Yes blast it! I want to know where my wife is! If you know tell me!"

Holmes blinked innocently. "Do you mean to tell me that you still wish to hire me to find your wife?"

"Yes curse you!" Meagan snarled. "Tell me where she is!"

"Mister Meagan, I regret to inform you that I do not work for free," my friend said sternly. "Do you wish to hire me for the amount you promised me yesterday?"

"Of course," the photographer nodded, "but only if you can produce results!"

"Very well, produce your checkbook and I shall provide your results."

Meagan wrote a check right then and there. I handed him the pen myself. His confederates seemed quite agitated at this turn of affairs and gave Holmes such dark looks that it would be easy to imagine any one of them to be murderers.

Holmes took it and made a big show of examining it.

"All right, I've paid your extortion," Meagan growled. "Now _where is my wife_?"

Holmes looked up from the check. "What? Oh, she's right in the other room. Watson, go fetch Miss Jones will you? I think you'll find that she also answers to the name of Mrs. Richard Meagan."

Our guest Miss Jones was really Mrs. Meagan! Looking back it seems obvious now. I suppose that if I would have more time I would have figured it out myself. The impact of that revelation on me was nothing compared to the reaction the disclosure made on our guests.

"You slimy…" Talent muttered darkly.

"You mercenary scoundrel," Chaffee whispered.

"You have no idea what you've done," Aland shook his head.

To be honest, I couldn't help agreeing with them. I now knew what Miss Jones; or rather Mrs. Meagan was afraid of. She was afraid of her husband. I had forgotten Holmes' cold unfeeling nature and assumed that the streak of chivalry I'd seen him display in the past would be here now. I was disappointed, but still found myself obeying Holmes' request. Perhaps my friend wasn't the heartless cad he appeared to be and had a scheme in the works.

When I brought his wayward wife into the room, the photographer jumped up and started for us. I don't claim to be  
the master of unarmed combat that Holmes is, but I've been trained as both a soldier and a doctor, so I was familiar enough both with human anatomy and hand-to-hand to surprise Meagan and twist his arm behind his back. The girl got behind me. Talent and Aland left their chairs, presumably to aid the damsel in distress. Meagan was talking, and so were they, but I can't recall exactly what was said. I got her to the chair at my desk, and stood before her as alert as a guard at Buckingham Palace. Talent and Aland had pulled Meagan down onto a chair between them, and he sat staring at her.

Then Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway and announced, "Inspector Lestrade, Mister Holmes. He desires to speak with you." Sensing the tension in the air she paused before continuing. "Is everything all right?"

Holmes nodded. "Ah, I expected him to arrive sooner or later. I just didn't want him to show before I had concluded my business with Mister Meagan here."

"I told him you are engaged. He says he knows you are, that the four men were followed to your house and he was notified. He says he expected you to be trying some trick with the dog, and he knows that's what you are doing, and he intends to come in and see what it is. Constable Clark is with him."

"Ah well, tell him they may come up Mrs. Hudson," Holmes purred, "provided he gives me thirty minutes without interruptions or demands. If he agrees to that, bring them in."

"Wait!" Ross Chaffee was on his feet. "You said you would discuss it with us before you communicated with the police."

"I haven't communicated with them, they're here."

"You told them to come!"

"No. I preferred to deal with Mister Meagan's little problem first, but I expected them to follow you and now that they're here they might as well join us. Mrs. Hudson, tell them they can come up."

"Yes, Mister Holmes," she said as she left.

Chaffee thought he had something more to say, decided he hadn't, and sat down. Talent said something to him, and he shook his head. Jerry Aland, much more presentable now that he was combed and dressed, kept his eyes fastened on Holmes. For Meagan, apparently, there was no one in the room but he and his wife.

Lestrade and Clark marched in, halted three paces from the door, and took a survey. "Hail, hail, the gang's all here," the inspector chanted dryly.

"Welcome gentlemen," Holmes purred. "You've arrived just in time. I have just finished filling Mister Meagan's order and now I can fill yours. But you should have one piece of information. You know the gentlemen, of course, but not the lady. Her current name is Miss Jewel Jones. Her legal name is Mrs. Richard Meagan."

"Meagan?" Lestrade repeated. "The one in the picture Chaffee painted? Meagan's wife?"

"That's right." Holmes looked at the rest of our audience. "Gentlemen, I apologize for the presence of the official police, but it can't be helped and they were bound to get involved anyway."

"Of course it can't be helped," Talent pointed out. "You're working for them as a consultant. Inspector Lestrade already told us that."

"Yes Mister Talent, but as an attorney you can understand the importance of discretion," Holmes sighed dishonestly. "For example, your guile with Mr. Meagan. You were all friends of Miss Jones', having, I suppose, enjoyed various degrees of intimacy with her, and you refused to disclose her to a husband whom she had abandoned and professed to fear. I will even concede that there was a flavor of gallantry in your conduct. But when Mr. Love was murdered and the police swarmed in, it was futile to try to keep her out of it. They were sure to get to her. Inspector Lestrade may be a dunderhead at times but the one thing you must know is that he is relentless. He will never stop until he gets to the truth, no matter how long it takes."

Inspector Lestrade's face grew red. "Thanks," he muttered bitterly.

"Oh, my apologies," Holmes blushed.

"I'm sure he meant it in the best possible way sir," Clarkie offered while trying to hide a smile.

"I'm sure," Lestrade agreed coldly. "Are you ready to get to the point Mister Holmes? You said something about filling my order."

"What? Oh yes! Sorry, where are my manners?" Holmes asked.

"The one mystery you can never solve," the inspector sparred back.

Now it was me who was hiding a grin.

"No really inspector," Holmes continued. "I should apologize. There really is no way the murderer can escape you. Even without hiring me for consultation you would solve the case sooner or later."

"Thank you," Lestrade muttered. "And how would I do that if might ask?"

"You have the evidence you need back at Scotland Yard," my friend teased. "Sooner or later you would discover what you have. That, combined with Doctor Watson's testimony should be all you need to make an arrest, perhaps even a conviction. The rest you could get later."

Now _I_ was confused. "Hang on, old man," I protested. "_My_ testimony? What did _I_ see that pointed you in the right direction?"

"Why Watson, I'm surprised you can't see it," Holmes smiled. "Even without the corroborating evidence you can guess, can't you?"

"Do _I_ have to guess?" Lestrade's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"You shouldn't," Holmes shook his head. "You already know the facts. Surely you can deduce it without looking at Mister Love's effects can't you?"

"Holmes, why don't you pretend the Yard hired you?" I suggested as the inspector simmered to a boil. "Quickly."

"Ah yes, of course," Holmes nodded. "Well the answer should be obvious to you both because of the peculiar thing that Gladstone did."

"Gladstone?" I repeated incredulously.

"The _dog_?" Lestrade snarled.

"Yes," Holmes nodded. "The dog."

* * *

_Next: I Never Guess_


	7. I Never Guess

** Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Puppy**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Die Like a Dog' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout_

_Chapter Seven: I Never Guess_

"The dog sir?" Clark repeated incredulously.

"Now really Holmes!" I scolded. "You've got to be having us on."

"I think it's high time you stopped this tomfoolery and told us how you know who the murderer is," Lestrade suggested in a dangerous voice.

Holmes sighed and scratched the back of his head. "Well it was fun while it lasted," he murmured. "Very well. Scotland Yard is paying me for my services so I might as well deliver." He cleared his throat and positioned himself so that all of our guests could see him. "Gentlemen," he announced in a melodramatic voice, "and lady," he added in a quieter tone. "Yesterday morning Mister Meagan called here by appointment to ask me to do a job for him. With his first words I gathered that it was something about his wife, and I wasn't in the mood to take that kind of work just then, so I was brusque with him. Naturally, he was offended. He rushed out in a temper, getting his hat and raincoat from the rack in the hall, and he took Doctor Watson's coat instead of his own. Later that morning Doctor Watson went to Arbor Street, with the coat that had been left in error, to exchange it. He saw that in front of number twenty-nine there were collected two black Marias, a policeman on post, some people, and a puppy dog. After exchanging pleasantries with Inspector Lestrade he decided to postpone his errand and went on by, after a brief halt during which he patted the dog. He walked home, and had gone nearly two blocks when he discovered that the puppy was following him. He carried the dog the rest of the way, to this house and this room."

He raised a questioning finger. "Now. Why did the dog follow Doctor Watson through the turmoil of the city? Anyone?"

When there was no answer I decided that must be my cue. "Perhaps I just have that animal magnetism." I joked smugly.

"Ha-ha!" Holmes laughed. "Doctor Watson is willing to believe, as many men are, that he is irresistible to both dogs and women, and doubtless his vanity impeded his intellect or he would have reached the same conclusion that I did. The dog didn't follow him; it followed the coat. Now the enigma is how to account for Mister Love's dog following Mister Meagan's coat. That makes no sense. Mister Meagan was a stranger. He didn't carry doggie treats around in his raincoat. Well now, since it was unquestionably Mister Love's dog, it couldn't have been Mister Meagan's coat. I deduced, therefore, that it was Mister Love's coat."

His gaze leveled at the husband. "Mister Meagan. Yesterday at police headquarters you maintained that you had never seen or heard of Mister Love. Information has reached me that questions the validity of the statement. I would like to hear it once again straight from you. Did you ever meet with Philip Love alive?"

Meagan was meeting the gaze. "No."

"Don't you want to qualify that?"

"No."

"Then where did you get his raincoat?"

No answer. Meagan's jaw worked. He spoke. "I didn't have his raincoat, or if I did I didn't know it."

"That won't do," Holmes shook his head. "I warn you, you are in deadly peril. The raincoat that you brought into this house and left here is downstairs in the foyer now, there on the rack. It can easily be established that it belonged to Mister Love and was worn by him. Where did you get it?"

Meagan's jaw worked some more. "I never had it, if it belonged to Love. This is a dirty frame! You can't prove that's the coat I left here."

Holmes' voice sharpened. "One more chance. Have you any explanation of how Love's coat came into your possession?"

"No, and I don't need any!" he snarled like a wounded animal.

Holmes pointed a finger at him. "I note that flash in your eye, and I think I know what it means. But your brain is lagging. After killing him, you took your Mackintosh off of him and put on him the one that you thought was his, but that won't help you any. For you see the coat that was on the body is Doctor Watson's, I noticed it when I was studying Mister Love's effects. Would you care to explain that Mister Meagan?"

Meagan's mouth was working but nothing was coming out. If he hadn't noticed that he wore the wrong coat home, and he probably didn't, in his state of mind, this had hit him from a clear sky and he had no time to study it.

"Mister Love was wearing a Mackintosh when you killed him and pushed his body down the stairs - and that explains why, when I examined his clothing and effects at Scotland Yard, I verified that the coat was not Mister Love's but Doctor Watson's. The doctor's name is inscribed on the inside collar. If you won't explain how you got Mister Love's coat, then explain how he got the one you left my home with that morning. Is that also a frame?"

Meagan was springing up, but before he even got started Clark's iron hands were on his shoulders, pulling him back and down. And a new voice sounded.

"I told you he would kill me! I knew he would! He killed Phil!" Jewel Jones was looking not at her husband, who was under control, but at Holmes.

Lestrade snapped at her, "How do you know he did?"

Judging by her eyes and the way she was shaking, she would be hysterical in another two minutes, and maybe she knew it, for she poured her words out. "Because Phil told me - he told me he knew Dick was here looking for me, and he knew how afraid I was of him, and he said if I wouldn't come and be with him again he would tell Dick where I was. I didn't think he really would - I didn't think Phil could be as mean as that, and I wouldn't promise, but two nights ago he called on me and told me he had seen Dick and told him he thought he knew who had posed for that picture, and he was going to see him again the next morning and tell him about me if I didn't promise, and so I promised. I thought if I promised it would give me time to decide what to do. But Phil must have gone to see Dick again anyway - "

"Where had they met before?" Lestrade demanded.

"At Phil's apartment, he said. And he said - that's why I know Dick killed him - he said Dick had gone off with his raincoat, and he laughed about it and said he was willing for Dick to have his raincoat if he could have Dick's wife." She was shaking harder now. "And I'll bet that's what he told Dick! That was just like Phil! I'll bet he told Dick I was coming back to him and he thought that was a good trade, a raincoat for a wife! That was like Phil! You don't - "

She giggled. It started with a giggle, and then her emotions poured out like the Deluge that launched Noah's Ark. Meagan's fellow tenants, led by Ross Chaffee, sprang to her aid, and I was glad to leave it to them.

"All right!" Lestrade bellowed over the pandemonium. "Let's take this show back to the Yard shall we? All of you, you're going in the Maria! Clarkie, put the darbies on Meagan."

When Meagan rose to his feet, Clarkie had to manhandle him a little to get him to cooperate. I moved to assist, but it was unnecessary. The police had their man.

Lestrade closed in on Holmes. "You!" he whispered dangerously. "You're going back to the Yard and show me the raincoat you say is Doctor Watson's!"

Holmes gave him an apologetic look. "Is it all right if I'm a touch late old fellow? Watson and I have a small errand to run but I'd be surprised if it even takes an hour. Surely Mrs. Meagan and the others can keep you busy until we arrive?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Only so I don't have to _look at you_ for the next hour or so. All right, you've got an hour, but don't be late!"

"No-no, of course not old boy!" Holmes smiled disarmingly. "Wouldn't think of it."

"Knowing you, you'd do it without thinking," the inspector muttered. "All right Clarkie, let's get this lot out of here!"

When they left, Holmes turned to me. "I have a request, my dear Watson, and a confession. If by some miracle you find a publisher who is willing to publicize our little adventures please don't tell him about this one."

"What?" I replied with surprise, "but why not?"

"It wasn't just the dog that led me to Meagan," my friend admitted. "To be honest I knew he was the murderer from the moment you told me that one had been committed."

"Incredible! How did you know?" I demanded.

"By the look in Meagan's eye," he said quietly. "I knew what he was capable of from the moment I refused him."

"Well done, Holmes!" I cheered while clapping politely. "If anyone can read a man at a glance it's certainly you! I can't imagine…"

"Watson, I made a snap decision before I had the first clue of the case," he confessed. "I guessed who murdered someone before I even got involved."

"Yes, it's quite uncanny…"

"No, no, you don't understand. I never guess. It is a shocking habit–destructive to the logical faculty," he insisted. "But this time I did. My meeting with Meagan biased my judgment. Simply by the evil look he gave me, when I heard of a murder he was the first candidate for the culprit who sprang to mind. Tell me, where is the scientific analysis in that?"

"Well then it was instinct," I suggested. "After dealing with the criminal element as much as you have you must have developed an instinct to tell you who is dangerous and who is not. It stands to reason."

"It stands in place of reason," he said bitterly.

"I've seen you solve puzzles purely by instinct before," I pointed.

"No, you have seen me analyze my observations at the speed of thought," he insisted. "I never guess. I weigh the odds and make a prediction based on the likely outcome. What you see as guesswork is me making an observation and playing the odds."

"What are the odds that someone with murder in his eye would actually go out and commit murder?" I challenged.

"Far more remote than you would think," Holmes corrected me. "For example, you may notice that Lestrade had the same look in his eye just now, and indeed I've seen it many times."

"Indeed you've _caused_ it many times," I reminded him.

"Indeed I have," he agreed, "yet never to my knowledge has he then gone out and committed homicide. To decide before I even know who's murdered the identity of the murderer is careless if not grossly irresponsible. Based off Meagan's problem with his wife I supposed that his wife was involved and that the victim was either his wife or her lover."

"And you were right," I smiled sarcastically. "Fancy that."

"Naturally I expected the evidence found at the scene to challenge my theory, but everything pointed to Meagan," Holmes continued helplessly. "Even amongst the tenants, he was the odd man out. It was as if my predilections were making me as blind as a bat!"

"You had already solved the case and all the clues supported your theory," I teased. "Poor you."

Holmes didn't seem to be listening. "Since he mixed up his raincoat with yours, he could have done the same with Mister Love's. It would explain why the dog had followed you home, especially if Love was in the habit of carrying doggie treats. The only way to test my theory was to identify the raincoat that was on the body."

"And?" I prompted him.

"It was your raincoat," Holmes let out a sigh. "The only way it could have gotten on Love was for Mister Meagan to put it there, not realizing that he had once again gotten the wrong coat. The case was solved, now all I needed was to find the motive, the missing woman. Aland had gone out of his way to protect Miss Jones in his statement, just as Chaffee was obviously shielding Mrs. Meagan. Either Jones knew the missing wife, or they were the same person.

"I spoke to Olsen the landlord who had agreed not to tell Meagan where his wife was. Chaffee and the others had told him why Meagan was leasing the apartment, no sense losing a tenant he figured, but he didn't see the harm in telling me where Miss Jones went. I was fortunate that the girl still lived at her new address."

"And then you coerced her to come here," I frowned.

"And then I convinced her that the only way to insure that her husband would never be a danger to her was to trust me," he insisted. "I promised her that if she could find the courage to confront her husband in the presence of me and her three champions I would make sure that she wouldn't have to hide anymore. She had left him because if his infernal jealousy did you know that? She decided that one day her husband's temper would erupt and that would be the end of her."

"If he wasn't intending to harm her _before_ she left him that certainly wasn't the case _afterwards_," I agreed.

"Yes, quite," Holmes nodded. "I suppose in a small way I might be partly to blame for Mister Love's demise."

"Indeed," I agreed smugly. "Love may have been tempting fate by stealing a man's wife and rubbing it in his face, but after Meagan's meeting with you poor Love didn't have a chance. There was no possibility of Meagan controlling his temper after _you_ got through with him."

"Yes," my friend had the decency to be chagrinned. "For Love to add salt to the wound might have made his demise likely but after I got through with Meagan, Mister Love's demise became a certainty."

"Remind me not to meet an enemy after you wind me up," I joked. "I'm a free man and I want to stay that way."

"Dear old Watson," Holmes smiled weakly. "It will be my pledge."

"Now then, what's this errand that we have to do before we give our statements at police headquarters?" I asked him. "Or did you just make that up so we can take Gladstone on a walk?"

Holmes held up Meagan's check. "No, first I want to get this to the bank before Mister Meagan stops payment. After creating such a scene in her house I think we owe our landlady the rent on time don't you? Tomorrow we can get you a new raincoat. Unless you want the other one back?"

I held up a conciliatory hand. "No thanks old man, that won't be necessary. I don't think I really want it back after it's been on a dead man."

To relieve the minds of any of you who have the notion that it makes a dog neurotic to change its name, our bulldog responds to Gladstone now as if his mother had started calling him that before he had his eyes open. And yes, we did use the money to pay Mrs. Hudson before buying me a new raincoat.

_A Study in Scarlet_ came out in the year of '87, followed by _The Sign of Four_ in '90 which I wrote as a present to my fiancé. Holmes asked me to protect his privacy after that, and did before his disappearance and presumed death at Reichenbach Fall. After that, his exploits appeared in the _Strand_ magazine like clockwork until his reappearance in '94. Holmes didn't let me publish anything else about him until the turn of the century when he started talking about retiring his practice and going out to the country to raise bees.

In the meantime I was happy for the humanizing effect the dog had on Holmes. To be honest, I was afraid he was going to use Gladstone as a lab animal. And he didn't, for the first year at least. Then one day I came home from my practice to find the dog spread out on the floor as if he was dead.

"Holmes," I called out in trepidation. "What's wrong with the dog? He's sick!"

"I'm testing out a new sedative," he told me. "I've altered the dosage to account for Gladstone's body weight."

"What?" I sputtered. "You drugged Gladstone?"

"He doesn't mind."

END


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